


The Blessing Over Bread

by TwinIvoryElephants



Category: Jojo Rabbit (2019)
Genre: Antisemitism, Judaism, Nazi Germany, Period-Typical Racism, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-09
Updated: 2020-04-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:01:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23558791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwinIvoryElephants/pseuds/TwinIvoryElephants
Summary: Elsa teaches Jojo about a Hebrew prayer after he overhears her "singing."
Relationships: Jojo Betzler & Elsa Korr
Comments: 2
Kudos: 38





	The Blessing Over Bread

Jojo regarded her with pursed lips, jerking his chin up to look down at her. That was what generals did when they wanted to intimidate someone lower than them. He was the man of the house—Elsa wasn’t even supposed to be there in the first place. She was a ghost. _Like Inge,_ his mind supplied. He shook that thought off, suppressing a shiver. He needed to focus. He was in charge, here. He was the Aryan, and she was the Jew. He couldn’t budge. He couldn’t show any vulnerability.

Jojo paced back and forth, trying to think of what to say, how to ask. Elsa waited patiently on the floor in front of the door to her crawlspace, staring at him with an air of wry amusement. “What is it you wanted to ask me?” she asked finally. “I can’t take you pacing. You’re making me dizzy.”

Jojo stopped and turned to face her, keeping his face stoic. “I need to ask you something important,” he stated. “And you need to answer me honestly. You _can’t_ lie.”

Elsa rearranged her features to look sober. “If this is for your book, I will tell the truth,” she said seriously, placing her hand on her heart.

When Jojo searched her face, he saw no hint of humor; she looked like she’d never laughed in her life. If she weren’t a Jew—and a girl, Jojo thought ruefully, she’d be a good general.

For a moment, they just stared at each other. Now that he’d prepared her for the seriousness of the question at hand, Jojo struggled to find a good way to ask. Finally, he plopped down and crossed his legs in front of him.

“It’s about that song you were singing,” he said in a low voice.

Elsa cocked an eyebrow. “What song? I wasn’t singing any song.”

Jojo could feel his neck grow warm. “It wasn’t today. It was yesterday.”

She shook her head. “Didn’t you say yourself that Jews are clever? Why would I sing when I'm supposed to stay hidden?”

“Clever and _devious_ ,” Jojo corrected. “That’s the important part.”

Elsa waved her hand dismissively. “I wasn’t singing yesterday. I don't know what you—” She paused, as if something had struck her. Then, she looked at Jojo with narrow eyes. He looked down in embarrassment. He knew this was coming.

“Were you listening to me when I was in the wall yesterday?” she inquired.

“No.”

“Liar.” For a moment, Jojo felt the familiar flicker of fear, of skittishness. Her eyes flashed with a smoldering sort of anger, a cold glint of steel. He wondered if she would try to attack him again. For the millionth time, he wished he still had his _Jungvolk_ knife. He still didn’t know where she was hiding it.

Then, the look in her eyes faded, replaced by a twinkle of humor. “For shame, Jojo!” Elsa scolded, wagging a finger at him. “I don’t think even your precious Hitler would eavesdrop on a girl in the comfort of her own private bedroom!” 

She seemed to be joking, but there was something in her tone that made Jojo uneasy all the same. Like all the times he was in her presence, he felt his sense of control slowly ebb away, leaving him squirrelly and uncertain, like _he_ was the intruder. He looked down at the floor, his face hot. 

“I didn’t mean to,” he muttered. This was also a lie. In truth, he’d wanted to talk to her for the second time that day. Captain K. didn’t have any jobs for him to do, and the house felt big and lonely without his mother. Boredom was a constant without the _Jungvolk_ , without friends. When he’d walked up to the door in the wall, though, he’d lost his nerve. He didn’t want to let Elsa know that he wanted to see her. It was a betrayal of his values. Wanting information for his book was one thing—that was for the sake of the Reich, at the end of the day. But for an Aryan—a blue-eyed, blond Aryan, at that!—to beg to spend time with a Jew, without any excuse? That just wasn’t done.

Elsa was looking at him in an odd, speculative way. “So,” she said after a pause. “You heard me praying.”

“You were singing,” corrected Jojo.

Elsa held up her hand, looking grim. “Do you want to know what I was doing or not?”

“Tell me,” he admitted meekly.

Elsa paused, then crooked her index finger at him, curling it toward her: _Come closer._ Jojo obeyed, invested despite himself. What he had heard behind the little door was a thin and sweet warble, like birdsong.

“Is it the secret language of the Jews?” he asked in little more than a whisper, unable to contain his excitement. He cursed himself for not bringing his book to write his findings down in.

“Yes,” Elsa whispered back, eyes bright. “ _Hebrew_.”

Jojo’s smile disappeared. His mouth curled. “Oh,” he said.

For once, she seemed taken aback. “What do you mean, ‘oh?’”

Jojo stood up. Suddenly, he felt intensely disappointed. He turned away, intent on walking out the door without another word. How dare she lie to him! After all he was doing for her!

“Jojo?” asked Elsa to his back, sounding a bit bewildered.

“You’re making that up,” Jojo accused, whipping around. “Hebrew isn’t a real language! I told you to tell the truth!”

Elsa was smiling in a half-lopsided way, which made him even madder. Jojo stamped his foot. “Stop smiling!” he snapped.

“Who told you that?” she asked. “That Hebrew isn’t a real language?”

Jojo rolled his eyes, disgusted. He waved a hand. “My teachers. Everyone.”

Elsa’s mouth twitched. She patted the floor in front of her, almost serene. “Come here,” she ordered. “I’ll let you in on a secret.”

After a moment, Jojo acquiesced. His heart skipped a beat when, without warning, she leaned toward him, her mouth just barely grazing his earlobe. In a soft, dusky voice, she sang the same song Jojo had heard behind the crawl space door yesterday. The words were undulating. Some pitched high, others low. The first ended with a rough “K” sound, but there were so many flowing vowels that it was hard to distinguish when some words ended and others began. It was less harsh than German—that much he knew.

The song was short—too short, in Jojo’s estimation. When it ended, Elsa withdrew. She looked satisfied at the expression on his face. “That was Hebrew, _meeskait_ ,” she said simply. “Do you think I made that up on the spot? Just to taunt you and other Nazis?”

Jojo wanted to explain what Fraulein Rahm had told his class, but his tongue was inexplicably tied. When she’d come that close, he’d been able to smell the musk on her clothes, earthy and sweaty. It hadn’t disgusted him. He untied his tongue and said brusquely, “What is _meeskait_?”

“‘Great, generous Aryan.’”

“Don’t lie!”

“‘Little ugly one.’”

“Was that in Hebrew, too?” Jojo sneered.

Elsa grinned, impish. “No. Yiddish.”

Jojo turned away, insulted. It was hard to think that, when people looked at him, they saw someone ugly, inferior. He was a blond and blue-eyed member of the master race, brought low by stupid scars and a limp. He was a monster, and everyone knew it—even the girl in the wall.

“You dare insult me in your gobbledygook language,” he muttered sullenly. “I could call you a lot of things.”

“Oh, I’ve heard _plenty_ of _things_ from people like you,” laughed Elsa. “I’d like to see if you have anything new!”

Moments passed.

“Well?” She cocked an eyebrow. “I’m waiting, _meeskait_.”

“Don’t call me ugly, you...you…!” Again, words evaded Jojo. He screwed up his face and mustered up all the venom he could as he spat, “ _Jew_!”

“Very original. Very creative,” Elsa mocked, a little smile on her face. 

Jojo bristled. “Okay,” he said, trying not to grit his teeth. “Let’s put away the insults. They’re childish.” He added, loftily, “And I’m trying to be professional here.”

Elsa blew a raspberry in the palm of her hand.

“Sing me that song again.”

Elsa took her hand away from her mouth, looking surprised. Then, her expression softened. “It’s not a song. It’s a prayer.”

Jojo could say a lot of things about prayers—like all good German citizens, he was a staunch atheist—but he kept his mouth shut. He wanted to hear Elsa sing again... preferably in his ear, with her mouth so close.

His silence was apparently encouraging. Elsa paused to smooth down the front of her suspenders, then said, softly, “It’s _hamotzi_. What I sang.”

“ _Hamotzi_.” The word was foreign to Jojo’s tongue. It sent a shiver down his spine.

Elsa nodded. “Yes. The blessing over bread.”

Jojo straightened up, eyes wide. “The piece of bread I gave you,” he said. “Yesterday.”

Elsa didn’t look at him. “Yes,” she said quietly. Her fingers interlaced on her lap. After a moment, she said, hesitantly, “That was a...kind thing for a Nazi to do.”

Jojo’s face felt like it was on fire. He looked anywhere but at Elsa. “Well,” he said quickly, “I had to. If you starve to death, I lose my best way of getting information on the Jewish race.” 

He didn’t mention that he had heard her stomach gurgling while they were talking, that for the first time he had noticed the budding hollows in her cheeks. He was hungry, too—the rations he and his mother received were just enough to keep the hunger at bay, nothing more—but somehow, Elsa’s gaunt look had startled him. He hadn’t known Jews could starve. It was one thing to see a demon wrapped in white skin in the wall; it was another to think of a human girl living there, without the benefit of friends or family. How could he not give her what little leftovers he had, after a revelation like that?

Elsa looked at him soberly. Then, she took his hands in her own. Jojo started, looking up. Every fiber in his being was telling him to slap her hands away, but something in him rejoiced and trembled in turn at her touch.

Gently, Elsa began to pray:

_“Barukh atah Adonai Elohaynu, melekh ha-olam, ha-motzi lechem min ha-aretz._

_Aimen.”_

Jojo shook his head after she was finished. “What does it mean? Why do you do it?”

“It’s to say thanks to God,” said Elsa, “Adonai, who brings forth bread from the earth.” She closed her eyes, then opened them again. They looked wet. “It’s something we have to say. _Goyim_ don’t understand.” She sounded bitter. “Especially not Nazis.”

“I’m not a _goyim_ ,” retorted Jojo haughtily.

Elsa wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. Jojo quieted down, suddenly realizing that she was upset. He felt the familiar feeling of disdain for himself, for his own stupidity. It was the same thing that happened with that stupid letter from Nathan, the first one he’d ever written. That had made her cry, too. Why was it every time he tried to be a good Nazi, it made him feel so terrible?

“I’ll...I’ll leave you alone, then,” said Jojo, getting up. In his awkwardness, he was even more keenly aware of his limp. “I’ll talk to you again tomorrow. Maybe.”

“Okay,” Elsa said quietly. Jojo didn’t wait to watch her retreat back into her crawl space; sometimes, it hurt to see—her long legs and bright blue eyes disappearing into the musty, cobwebbed darkness and stale air. It was like watching a marionette be folded away into its box, jerky and wrong. But it was a human, not a puppet, being put away.

Jojo clicked the door to Inge’s room shut behind him. He could still feel Elsa’s prayer echoing in his ears. He wanted to mouth the strange words she’d made, but he knew that would sully them, somehow. They were Elsa’s words—not his. 

Jojo wondered if she might teach it to him someday—the blessing for bread. One day, when they had all the bread they needed.

Just the thought made Jojo’s stomach rumble.  
  



End file.
